I Had To Dream Awake
by ChaosChild92
Summary: Written for a reunion/re-establishment prompt over on the kink meme but kind of got out of hand and now covers pretty much all of Peter and Edmund's relationship. This is SLASH. If you don't like it don't read it.


**Title: **I Had To Dream Awake  
**Author: **Chaos  
**Beta: **The wonderful anemonerose was both inspiration and beta for this behemoth.  
**Pairings**: Peter/Edmund with added Peter/Caspian and Caspian/Edmund  
**Warnings: **Angst, Pevensiecest.  
**Ratings: **R, I think.  
**Spoiler Warnings: **The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Prince Caspian, Voyage of the Dawn Treader and my head-canon, just to be safe.  
**Disclaimer****: **The only way they even remotely belong to me is in the compilation edition sitting on my desk. I do not claim, I do not earn, please do not sue. The title is from Dream Awake by the Frames, so that's not mine either.

**Summary:** Written for a reunion/re-establishment prompt over on the kink meme but kind of got out of hand and now covers pretty much all of Peter and Edmund's relationship.

**Author's Note: **So this grew ridiculously out of proportion to all reason...

* * *

There's always been something unusual drawing Peter to Edmund.

His earliest memory is of sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair at his grandmother's house while he waited for Edmund to enter his life. In whatever vague understanding of childbirth he had at the time Peter had been sure his brother would emerge, fully formed and ready to play with him. When he'd bee brought home, a screaming little red faced monster, it had been a huge disappointment.

Until, on his third day of screaming the walls down, Peter approached the cot and extended a hand. Baby Edmund had instantly ceased crying, reaching out, wrapping his tiny fingers around Peter's and staring at him.

And that's where it starts.

It changes as they grow older. Peter always overreacts to every little thing his brother does and doubly so to anything that might be perceived as a threat. And Edmund knows exactly how to push Peter's buttons in a way he just can't explain; he just knows how to get inside his big brother's head. He always will.

But it changes for Peter when he reaches puberty. At first it's only little things. Things he can dismiss. Like when he tackles Edmund to the bed, play fighting and determined to tickle, and Edmund squirms underneath him, panting and occasionally groaning as he searches for Peter's own ticklish spots (of which there aren't any), hand running over exposed skin and brushing through fabric. Something about the whole situation makes Peter pull away, red-faced and gasping for air like someone's been trying to drown him, as he stares down at Edmund's grin. He's thankful that his brother doesn't notice. Just takes advantage of the way he's gone still and rolls them off the bed, landing on the floor with a thump. Jumping up and racing off, shrieking for reinforcements.

Or when, during a rare display of physical affection (which he's allowed, because Edmund's still a child), he comes up behind his brother, who's losing a game of checkers, kneeling on the carpet and draping himself over Peter's shoulders in order to peer at the board. It gives Peter the strangest urge to pull Edmund down into his lap and trap him there forever. He resists it.

Things change even more when he gets sent off to school and he finds that he misses Ed.

He had expected to miss everyone, and he does. He misses Father with a prickling feeling at the back of his neck, because at home he'd always been a solid, protective presence, even if he was just sitting in the corner reading his newspaper. He misses Mother with a hollow in the bottom of his stomach, because she's wonderful and also because the food at the school doesn't compare in the slightest with her cooking. He misses Susan with a dull ache behind his eyes because she always listens to his problems before they become concrete and because she always knows the homework answers when he can't figure them out. He misses Lucy with a heavy lump in his throat because she brightens everything around her just by being so happy, and she gives the best hugs.

But he misses Edmund with an intense burning that wraps itself around his heart and won't let go and he can't figure out why.

He didn't expect to miss Edmund this way.

He didn't expect to start dreaming about him either. Dreaming about kissing him the way some of the other boys talk about kissing girls. Didn't expect to dream about Edmund curled up in his arms with a much soppier expression than he'd ever wear in reality. Didn't expect to dream about things that have never and will never happen. Dream about an Edmund that isn't real and is slightly unsettling in his perfection.

It's a relief to get home and see them all again and be reminded of what a twerp Edmund can be.

Except then things get worse, because he starts having the same dreams but now in the middle of kissing him Edmund will pull away and make some stinging remark that Peter's heard him make before, this time with a slightly amused twist to his mouth rather than an angry expression.

He finds himself staring at Edmund while he's awake and has to remind himself of things.

Like the fact that it's not how brothers behave. Not how boys behave and certainly not how men behave which, as Peter's father informs him as he hugs him goodbye, is certainly what he's becoming.

It's not appropriate and it's not allowed and that's that. So when Edmund starts growing up Peter carefully doesn't notice the changes in him or the knowing look in Susan's eyes. Because that's just the way it is in England.

He carefully doesn't even think about it in Narnia because he's so used to straining away from the bond that ties him to Edmund (like a drowning man to a stone) that it doesn't cross his well disciplined mind. And even if it does, perhaps late at night when the lights of the camp are low and there's only his own breathing to fill the tent, he's sure that Edmund must hate him by now. He's sure that it's his reactive apathy that has driven his brother to the depths that he reaches.

He carefully doesn't think about just how much he needs to get Edmund back from the White Witch, the things he's willing to do. The things he might have down, standing on that ridge and watching that tiny figure (fragile at such a distance) disappear, had he been alone.

He doesn't think about the warmth the flows through him when he emerges from his lonely tent and sees Edmund outlined against the sunrise as he talks with the huge lion, exhausted and battered but unquestionably alive.

Doesn't think about throwing himself at Edmund. Doesn't think about how far away he needs Edmund to be when the fighting starts.

He tries to ignore the way his heart stops when he sees Ed go down, fighting against the White Witch with nothing but clinical strategy in his eyes. He ignores the look Aslan gives him, which is a thousand times more unfathomable than Susan's. He ignores the urge to run his fingers through Edmund's hair and doesn't try to get him out of the ridiculously heavy chain mail which is obviously inhibiting his already laboured breathing.

He's also not thinking about how relieved he is, watching the colour return to Edmund's cheeks after Lucy works her magic. Or how Edmund feels in his arms, pressed against his chest. He's ignoring how good it feels to see Edmund smile so honestly when the crown is lowered onto his head, how it makes his heart jump a little. Makes him wish he was the one who inspired that smile.

He spends the whole of the banquet carefully not thinking about any of that.

But suddenly the reality that they have to rule a country comes crashing down on them and for some time after Aslan wanders off into the sunset they're all quite lost.

First they have to tend to the more seriously wounded, bury the dead and mourn. They end up burning the remains of the Witch's army and he doesn't say anything but he can see it bothers Edmund that while they find a bloody heap that might be her body they never find her wand.

Then they have to scour the countryside, ferreting out the little pockets of the Witch's army that weren't dead enough to burn and convince them that they don't want to become so. While they're doing that they discover that their population is twice the size they originally thought, because there are animals wandering around the forest and looking confused because they've been stone statues for the last hundred years, left out in the open as a warning to the forest at large.

It takes a while to find them all and some of them have been frozen so long (longer than Narnia has) that everything has changed and they no longer have families.

After that they have to send out envoys to the countries that are starting to look interested in their borders. And because pacifying the Calormenes and the Telmarines and everyone else isn't enough they have to make sure that the borders are watched at all times while they go about cementing their reign.

Which turns out to be a task and a half. Winning in battle with a legend on side is one thing but they're still only kids and Narnia has been in turmoil for so long that there aren't any concrete systems in place for them to make use of. Anyone who knew anything about government in the time before the White Witch's reign died decades ago and what records are left are a hundred years out of date.

So they spend their days buried under mountains of reports, trying not to doze off as around them new records are made and various courtiers and secretaries try to verify where the old ones intersect with current reality.

They collectively fumble around in the dark for a system that will work in a country where trees and animals are sometimes part of the populace and sometimes aren't. It's complicated, and Peter doesn't have time to not think about anything though he does occasionally catch himself thinking that 'not a tame lion' might easily be code for 'doesn't like doing the paperwork'.

In the face of all the complications and expectations they seek simplicity wherever they can.

They begin to gravitate towards each other in the evenings. Not in the rooms they've been given, which are enormous, but in a little sitting room they discover that somehow becomes their place. It's not so big that they feel awkwardly superfluous (kids playing dress up in the Great Hall) and not so well furnished that they're nervous of breaking things. It's a place where they don't have to be royal anything and they use it to preserve the childhood and memories that are rapidly drifting away.

"It's like trying to remember a dream," Lucy says one evening as she watches Susan and Peter play chess. "Do you know I tried to remember Mother's name the other day and I couldn't think of it at all. It only came to me much later, when I'd forgotten all about it." Peter finally (reluctantly) moves his bishop and Susan's hand flashes out, shifting her piece almost faster than he can follow. She smiles at him cheerfully and with a sigh he returns to his consideration of the board as Lucy goes on. "Dear Mr Tumnus thought I was altogether mad when I started yelling in the middle of his inventory of the current kitchen supplies." Peter nods, looking up at her as she swings her legs in the space under the sofa.

"I know what you mean," he admits. "It's like that whole other world is fading away. Like nothing that happened there was quite real." Susan makes a sound that isn't quite a sigh, knotting her fingers together in intricate patterns as she waits for him to decide what to do.

"We are going to go back one day, aren't we Peter?" she asks, like she does every time they have this conversation. But she sounds more reluctant (less wistful) each time. He smiles, still staring down at the board and trying to remember what his plan was when he agreed to this game.

"Of course," he tells her, like he always does. "Oncer we have a moment to formulate a plan." He and Lucy share a smile because it's the excuse they came up with together before there was really an answer to this question. "After all, we don't want to get stuck there."

"We can all lead double lives." One day we'll be kings and queens in Narnia, the next we'll be running around the mansion driving everyone crazy. One day responsible for a whole country and one just being who we were." Peter grins at his youngest sister, who's bouncing on the couch in excitement.

"Not entirely who we were, I hope," he says. "I don't know that I could take being boring old Peter Pevensie again, putting up with his troublesome younger siblings." They all laugh, suffused with comfort at the thought of being ordinary and without paperwork, just for a day. Their merriment is interrupted by the thump of Edmund's book hitting the floor. They all look at him in surprise and he frowns back, though there's very little heat behind it. The tableau holds for a moment before he stands up, flushing under their stares.

"I'm going to bed," he mutters, slinking across the room. The bright Narnian clothes lend an oddly colourful tone to his exit, vanishing as he softly closes the door behind him. Silence reigns supreme for a moment, awkwardness practically echoing in his wake.

"What's eating him?" Lucy finally asks, concern creasing her face. Susan sighs, unfolding herself and getting up gracefully.

"Nothing," she says. He tone is nonchalant as she brushes out her skirt, but the look she gives Peter is the same one she always has, loaded with meaning that he can't quite fathom. "He's got the right idea about bed though, come on." She holds a hand out to her younger sister and Lucy pulls a face.

"I'm not sleepy," she protests "I'm a queen!" Susan smiles.

"Yes you are," she tells her. "And even queens have to go to bed early when they've been listening to reports and inventories all day long." Lucy sighs heavily and lets Susan pull her up, waving goodnight to Peter as she is led towards the door. Susan ushers her out and pauses, fixing her brother with that loaded look again.

"You really should talk to him," she says and he raises an eyebrow, opening his mouth to ask what she means, but she's already gone.

Edmund curls up under the covers, trying not to think. His head keeps spinning around and around as he tosses and turns, uncomfortable in his nightshirt, uncomfortable with the way his blankets are arranged, uncomfortable with his pillows. Eventually, despite these distractions, he drifts off. And he dreams of what might have happened.

_Pinned to the table he tries not to fight against the ropes. They're already tight enough and each time his trembling limbs jerk against them the chafing on his wrists grows worse, the bindings tighter, his shoulders pulled more painfully out of joint until he thinks he's losing feeling in his fingertips._

_And he can feel the spit running out of the already soaked gag, coating his chin and trickling awkwardly down his cheeks. Can hear the soft grunting noises his breathing is making as he fights for each inhale. He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes as the pain and humiliation swirl together in a heady mix that's clouding his judgement and making his heart race uncomfortably, feeling like it's pressed right up against his ribcage._

_Terrified and alone he can feel his eyes begin to drift closed as he's overwhelmed by the agony of the situation, any coherent thoughts drowned out but the screeches and howls of the Witch's followers. He can feel himself slowly losing his grip, hope and rationality pulling further and further away into the darkness._

_Then, abruptly, his whole world is focussed by a point of pain in the hollow at the base of his throat, created by collarbones that are too pronounced after forced marches and weeks on an empty stomach. His eyes fly open and fix on the Witch, standing above him with that constant, unreadable expression still on her face._

_The pain intensifies as the knife seems to grow heavier, digging in deeper. He closes his eyes again, throwing his head back as far as he can against the table, writhing in desperation as he tries to escape the pain. Anything to relieve that single point of white fire._

_Then it begins to move, scoring a long line as it slides down his chest. Slicing the skin and cloth easily aside, leaving a trail of agony and a strange feeling of emptiness in its wake. He gives up struggling, overwhelmed by the pain as it infects his whole body._

_"Look at me." The chiding voice is barely a whisper but it's the clearest thing in his world, both closer and much further away than the hoots and calls that are echoing oddly in the open air. Struggling through tears he forces his eyes back open, watching as the Witch pulls the knife up. Dully registering the moonlight on the stone of the blade, following its plunging arc._

_Then suddenly there are lips on his and his numb hands are scrabbling at dust and grass. He blinks at the Witch's face, impossibly close, and she pulls away from him and laughs. Laughs wildly, throat and chest heaving until the sound grows weaker, turning into gasps, great gulps of air. Then the head comes down and somehow (impossibly) it's Peter. Peter with tears on his cheeks as he holds Edmund up. Peter leaning in as Edmund's world narrows, growing darker at the edges as he seems to grow brighter and brighter. Peter pressing kisses against his cheeks, lips coming away wet with tears. Kissing his eyes, his forehead, his mouth. Whispering there, words that he catches perfectly._

_"I'm sorry." The same knife rising in the moonlight which is impossible because the sun is high above them and the Witch is dead and this is Peter._

_And then it descends._

He wakes with a blinding pain in his chest, muffling a scream into his pillow. The silk is already damp underneath his cheek as he turns his head back and forth,, smearing the fresh wave of tears across his face while sobs overtake him.

Peter wanders around the empty sitting room, unable to settle himself to anything.

He examines the books on the shelves that Edmund and Susan chose, carefully carting them in from the library where they'd remained untouched.

He crouches beside the chess set, which is solid gold and silver set with tiny precious stones to differentiate the sides. Ruby for gold, diamond for silver.

He picks up the silver king and weighs it in his hand. It's heavy as he rolls it across his palm, examining the tiny face closely. It looks like Ed. A more grown up version but still unquestionably Ed.

Frowning, he picks up the gold king and examines that. It's him. With a beard and disconcertingly faceted eyes, but still him. He's never noticed that before. He puts them back down and picks up the queens. Lucy is gold and Susan's silver. He stares at them for a moment, then shrugs. People clearly give monarchs strange gifts.

He crosses to the elegant harpsichord that takes up one corner of the room and depresses the keys, only managing to elicit a few tinkling and discordant sounds before he gives up and gently closes the lid.

He glances back at the chess set.

He picks up the diamond king. Edmund's face is stern. It's an odd expression. Good odd, Peter thinks, then wonders where the thought came from. Perhaps he's just so used to seeing Edmund pout and look bored that anything else would look good. He decides to put the piece down before he can have any more disturbing thoughts about it, but he manages to drop it on his foot instead

His first reaction is a bitten off swear word, because silver is heavy and it hurt, even through his boot. His second is to crouch and gently pick it up, staring at it. He swallows, irrationally worried about his brother. Then he shakes himself and puts the piece back down where it came from. This isn't some kind of voodoo chess set.

He tries to push the uncomfortable feeling away as he heads back towards the books, picking up the first one to catch his eye and settling down in the window seat. He slips it open, internally shaking his head.

Edmund isn't sure how long he lies there, gasping shallow, damp breaths into his pillow before he struggles out from under the covers to stand wild-eyed and shivering in the middle of his bedroom. After a moment of jumping at shadows he draws in a deep breath, closing his eyes as he fights to compose himself.

There's no way he's climbing back into his bed, damp with fear and imagined agony. His official robe is warm and close to hand so he shrugs into it, pulling it tight as he hurries to the doorway. He pauses on the threshold for a moment, not sure if wandering the castle this late at night is really wise.

Then he dismisses the thought. He's a king. The castle is his to wander when nightmares drive him from his room. Even if he doesn't feel like a king right now.

He feels young and terrified as his dreams chase him down the halls until he bursts through the huge doors at a dead run. He stops on the threshold, fears dissipating behind him as he takes in the magnificent view and lets the chilly wind blow straight through him. The beauty only holds them at bay for a moment though. Then, pursued by memories and demons that could have been his, Edmund hurries away from the castle. Lonely and lost he follows the path down towards the beach to drown his thoughts in the sea, if only temporarily.

Peter's still in the sitting room when the midnight watch is called.

He's been trying to bury himself in the book he picked out but instead he's found himself constantly staring down at the beach below, like he's waiting for something.

He looks back at the book, flicking through the pages as he tries to remember what the last words he actually read were. Tiredly he gives up, shutting it and putting it aside.

He's just about to take his candle and try to find solace in sleep when movement catches at the corner of his eye.

He turns back to the window and peers into the moonlit darkness below. Just visible against the sand is a figure. Squinting, he can just make out the green of Edmund's robes. He blows the candle out with a sigh.

The night air is chilly, plucking at his hair and clothes as he follows the path that's been carved down the cliff face and traces Edmund's footprints through the sand. He comes across his brother sitting among the rocks with an odd look on his face.

"It's beautiful out here." He says it softly, stopping a few paces back, trying to provide some breathing room. Edmund doesn't react, his eyes still distant, fixed on the rolling water. Peter tries again.

"Can't sleep?" No response except for a slight inclination of the head, moonlight silvering Edmund's hair. Like the water. Like the eerily sculpted chess piece. Peter sighs, brushing the thoughts aside and suddenly wishing he hadn't come down here in the first place.

"Come on Ed," he say impatiently, starting forward and taking Edmund by the arm. "You're getting your robes all sandy." Edmund jerks back, reacting with such unexpected violence that Peter is forced to release him, leaving his brother to stagger back a few paces, arms wheeling wildly until he falls, hitting the sand hard. Peter moves forward again, trying to help, but Edmund struggles, pushing himself backwards and away from his brother, catching yet more sand on the fine material of his cloak.

"Do you want me to say I'm sorry?" he spits out, and Peter blinks at him in surprise. The robe falls open as Edmund gets to his feet and Peter can see that he's just wearing his nightshirt, wind blowing the thin material tight against his body as he stares up at his older brother, looking like he wants to hit something. His hair is in complete disarray, his cheeks high with colour and his eyes almost feverishly bright.

"What?" Peter asks, feeling like he's completely lost track of the conversation now that there are two people involved.

"Do you want me to say that I am sorry," Edmund enunciates slowly, pausing between each word as the rough anger and fear that were so plainly written on his face are drawn in under a tight shield of arrogance and cold fury.

"For what?" Peter asks, definitely lost at this point. Edmund throws his hands up, turning in a circle in impotent fury.

"For everything!" he yells over the wind keening through the rocks above them. "For absolutely everything. Sorry that I was such a complete twerp in England. Sorry that I tried to sell you out to an evil witch! I'm sorry that Aslan had to die just to save me. I am sorry!" He stops, panting and looking at Peter like he's daring him to push further. Peter just blinks at him and Edmund sighs. "You know what I'm most sorry about?" he asks and Peter can't seem to formulate words at this point, just shaking his head mutely in response.

Edmund eyes him for a moment longer, quivering with suppressed anger like he's a leaf blown by the raging wind. "I'm most sorry for whatever it is I'm feeling about you." His voice drops lower and suddenly it's as if the crashing waves and the singing wind have been muted. Peter takes a step closer, trying to stop his heart beating its frantic way out of his chest as Edmund looks like he wants to pull away.

"Feel about me? Ed, what are you on about?" Edmund just looks at him, jaw set and ready for a fight. A familiar expression. Then it all just disappears. The rage, the tightly coiled muscles. He slumps where he's standing, practically collapsing as his eyes shift down onto the sand.

"It doesn't matter," he says, voice impossibly soft but perfectly clear. "I can be gone by morning. I'll go back to England, or wherever, and you three can be kings and queens without your screwed up brother." Peter steps closer, right into Edmund's personal space now that the wariness is gone. Edmund doesn't even look up. Slowly, trembling with something he can't name, Peter brings one hand up, sliding it under the mop of hair that covers Edmund's face and cupping his cheek.

"Ed," he says softly. He can feel Edmund's throat working against his wrist as his brother swallows. "Look at me." It's not a command. Not anything the High King might say. This is boring old Peter Pevensie talking and Edmund might fight him all the way but he always gives in to Peter eventually.

He looks up, fringe catching on his eyelashes as he blinks at his brother, eyes vulnerable as he waits.

Unable to stand the hang dog look for a minute longer Peter moves too fast for thought, his whole body bearing down on Edmund, pressing the already ruined robe into the cliff face as he ducks his head, catching his brother's gasp in his own mouth. He slides the hand on Edmund's cheek up into his hair, gently supporting his head away from the rocks, and Edmund's hands tentatively come up, fingers gently curling into Peter's shirt, lips moving hesitantly against his. Encouraged, Peter pulls Edmund closer, free hand sliding around to the small of his back until they're pressed so close he can feel the warmth of Edmund's body through his clothes and Edmund is clinging to him.

When he finally feels like he might pass out he pulls back, resting his cheek against Edmund's forehead. They're still so close together that Peter can feel Edmund's breath ghosting across his neck and his lips brush against his temple each time he speaks.

"Peter," Edmund breathes. "It's not…there are laws…" Something tightens in Peter's chest, something that's been screaming at him for what feels like an age. He carefully squashes it and hides it away, pulling Edmund closer as he does.

"Well this is our country," he says softly, words coming out threadier than he expected as he feels Edmund's soft breaths caressing his neck. "We can decide what the laws say here."

Despite his bravado, thoughts of legality and morality do still bother Peter late at night. But he can't deny that Edmund becomes much happier. Susan looks at them like she just knew all along and Lucy is content, like she always is.

And while Edmund still knows how to push all of Peter's buttons it doesn't always end in fights anymore. And Peter still overreacts to everything Edmund does, which Edmund takes full advantage of.

Their whole lives stretch out in front of them and gradually they forget about England and their mother and the war that was going on there. Because they have each other and they have their sisters and their own wars to worry about

It slowly becomes known that they're involved and everyone just goes on with their lives. Just like that.

There are difficulties of course, because as Edmund points out their lives could become monotonous and boring otherwise.

There's Edmund kneeling in the mud and water of a battlefield while rain slicks dark hair over the bruises and cuts on his face as a sword presses against his throat. Peter following the movement of Edmund's tongue as it traces across his lip, greedily collecting the scant drops of water there.

There's beringed fist in Edmund's hair, dragging it back as hard eyes stare at Peter.

(Words like _choose_ and _love most_ echo in his ears.)

Edmund's voice is cracked as he croaks out his name

"Peter…" and after a moment the High King shakes his head because while he wants nothing more than to carry Edmund far away from all this, his brother is the thing he loves most and he would never forgive him if he gave up the whole of his kingdom just to get him back.

Edmund nods minutely, understanding. His eyes close as the sword rises, face serene and only the tiniest hitch in his breath. Then there's a red arrow protruding from the neck of the executioner and Edmund's in Peter's arms as both armies charge forward.

Stroking his brother's face delicately, oh so aware of the injures beneath his fingertips. But Edmund's smiling up at him, eyes bright despite the raindrops falling into them.

"Love you, Pete."

There's Peter freezing as Edmund runs a hand down his naked back, because there was something, something about this that was wrong.

There's Edmund looking up at him in concern, voice soft as he flattens his hand across Peter's spine and stares up at his brother. Then the moment passes and Peter leans down to press his mouth against Edmund's neck where it meets his shoulder, knowing just the right spot to make his brother moan, pulling him down.

There's Lucy lying in bed, couching with a wince while serious looking fauns pour over her exposed stomach, a slash of red on the pale skin. Peter's jaw is tense and he can feel the same set in Edmund's shoulders as he leans against him.

Susan's eyes are focussed on their sister but Peter takes a moment to wrap an arm around Edmund and press his lips to the pulse in his temple.

"She'll be ok."

There's Edmund leaning over a treaty, shaking his head.

"This won't do," he says, and Peter looks at him, wide eyed as the Calormen negotiators do the same. Ed shoots him a look and Peter subsides, sitting through the tense moments as Edmund stares coolly at his opponent.

"Fine." And just like that the treaty is signed.

And it works for them because Narnia's not a fairytale. They don't expect any happily-ever-afters and they get their happily-right-nows. It works because it's not England either.

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The return is harder than any of them would have expected. There's the first heady rush as they stumble out of the wardrobe and memories come flooding back.

There's the scolding they get from Mrs Macready that a huge portion of their newfound being is screaming is an affront to their dignity.

There's the conversation with the Professor in which each of them fears they see their future, lonely and filled with a desperate longing for the country they ruled for years and seconds.

And then, quite suddenly, they're back to ordinary life and ordinary rules made by other people.

Peter's grateful that Edmund at least waits until they get back to their room. Grateful for small mercies.

He's been watching his brother all afternoon, waiting for something like this, as Edmund's shoulders stoop lower and lower under the monotony of it all. And he can see what Edmund wants as he comes across the room towards him. He can read the expression on Edmund's face, even regressed almost beyond what he knows.

It's the loss there, more than anything, speaking to the loss that's burrowing from his heart and down into the pit of his stomach, that holds him still as Edmund pushes up against him, crowding him with a frame that's just a boy's again. And for a moment, as Edmund is forced to stand on his toes, making a little sound of annoyance that vanishes on their shared breath, Peter remembers what it was like.

Remembers strong, capable hands and wrestling that was never entirely playful or at all violent. Almost without conscious thought he's leaning down into Edmund's kiss, hand coming up to the side of his brother's jaw as he remembers how to tilt his head at this height and how to move his tongue to make Edmund moan into his mouth.

For a moment he's High King Peter again and the man in his arms is strong, his equal, his consort. Then his hand touches the yielding, smooth skin of Edmund's jaw and he breaks away, dropping his hand like he's been burned.

He stares at his little brother, hands curling into fists by his sides as he tries to do away with the memory of stubble on his fingertips, catching under his nails as he dragged them along and down a pale throat.

Edmund's staring back at him with the same eyes he's always had, dark and heavily lidded as he pants for breath.

"What's wrong?" His voice is so much higher and it's wrong, it's all wrong for here and now. Peter shakes his head, his feet practically scrabbling on the floor as he tries to push himself through the closed door.

"We can't do this," he whispers, voice catching wetly in his throat. Edmund's face crumples like he's been expecting this, and Peter swallows, desperately fighting the urge to reach out and put his little brother back together again. "I'm sorry," he says, more firmly now, looking down and away from that broken expression as he runs a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the memories. "We just can't do this."

"No!" Edmund's expression twists into something between the petulant rage of a bored child and the kingly fury he wore in Narnia as he shouts, and Peter makes a desperate motion.

"Ed, keep it down." He glances nervously at the door immediately behind him, then back at Edmund, who's still glaring.

"No," he repeats, but more softly this time.

"Ed…" Peter begins, wanting Edmund to see reason, to understand. But before he can get another word out Edmund has closed what seems like an increasing distance between them and he presses against Peter.

He slides his hands under Peter's shirt, suspenders slipping to the sides as he hauls it untucked. He presses kisses all along Peter's jaw and neck and collarbone, unbuttoning the shirt with one hand while the other continues to map out the lean lines of Peter's stomach, faltering a little over the differences in the muscle and the absence of hair.

Peter holds still, tilting his head back so that his mouth is out of Edmund's reach and curling his hands tighter. He flinches each time Edmund touches him and his jaw begins to ache as he presses his teeth tighter and tighter.

But he doesn't stop Edmund until the boy begins to fumble with the fastening on his trousers. Then he unclenches his fists with some difficulty, covering Edmund's hands and gently pulling them away from his body.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, unable to look at Edmund. "I'm sorry." He moves his brother back a pace then turns, opening the door and stepping stiffly forward, trying to pretend he's not running away.

"Please." Edmund's voice is choked with tears and Peter inhales deeply, wanting desperately to turn back around and see King Edmund, but unwilling to risk what he might do and the consequences it might have.

"I'm sorry," He murmurs, stepping through and closing the door behind him.

He only makes it a few metres before he has to find somewhere. Somewhere he can be alone. He stumbles into an empty room and sinks down, pressing his back against the door. He lets his eyes slide shut as memories pour into and over him. Edmund's hands on his back. Lips brushing past his ear. Teeth dragging over the skin of his collarbone while he writhes, pressed against the body above him.

He opens his eyes to find his vision obscured by tears and becomes aware that he's gasping to draw in air. He looks down at his clothes and half-heartedly pulls his suspenders back onto his shoulders, examining the marks he's inflicted on his palms, like stigmata.

He chuckles miserably to himself.

"Bloody hell," he whispers in the quiet of the room, letting his head fall back against the wall. "Bloody hell.'

Edmund doesn't speak to Peter for days. He rushes up to bed as soon as dinner is finished and is curled up facing the wall once Peter comes in. Gone by the time Peter wakes up in the morning.

It takes a rainy day to gather the four children in a room together and even then it's only because Mrs Macready has instructed them to remain put under threat of shipping them back to London.

The weather outside matches the despondent tone that has hung over them since their return. They all sit quietly in opposite corners of the room, lost in their own thoughts or memories until Susan shakes herself free and gets up. Stands in the middles of the room with her hands on her hips, much as she often looked when supervising decorations for a banquet, shooing away hopeful suitors or surveying a battlefield.

"Alright," she announces. "That's enough. We're not going to sit here moping." Lucy slowly pulls herself to her feet and finds her way to Susan's side, swaying a little, like someone pulled out of a dream. Edmund stares at Susan with dead, hostile eyes, but it's Peter who breaks the silence.

"And what are we going to do instead?" he asks. Susan turns a baleful eye on him and strides over, seizing his arm and hauling until he's forced to stumble to his feet.

"We're going to stay connected to Narnia. And each other," she tells him. " We're going to write everything down." He expression softens and she smiles as her eyes drift just a little out of focus, sparkling as they light on something in the dark recesses of her mind. "Because I don't ever want to forget." Peter hesitates, but nods.

The suggestion imbues them with something resembling energy and they bustle about for a while in the library, finding paper and pens and settling down at the table, all except Edmund, who remains dead-eyed and miserable in the corner. Curled into a ball as if he's in physical pain.

Susan glances at him, then gives Peter a meaningful look that's a rush of the familiar. This time he ignores her. She hisses something at him, but he just shakes his head.

"We'll have to start with just the three of us," he says, and so they settle down to do just that, while Lucy shoots occasional concerned glances in Edmund's direction. But soon they're all so involved that the room around them fades away and for a bit it feels like they're back in Narnia, sitting under trees in one of the courtyards for Cair Paravel at high summer, listening to someone else tell them stories of the heroic days of Old Narnia.

They're so involved that they've reached the second birthday of the Beaver's offspring before they realise that Edmund's not in the corner anymore.

"Where do you think he went?" Lucy asks, frowning. "I hope the Macready doesn't catch him."

"More importantly, when do you think he went?" Susan asks, giving Peter a variation of that look again and really, how many does she have? He ignores her.

"Doesn't matter," he says and before the uncomfortable silence can grow again he taps the page. "Now, what's next?" Wasn't it Mr Tumnus and that whole barrel of wine?"

They don't see Edmund at supper that night. They tell the Professor he's just feeling ill. The old man gives them a knowing look over the top of his spectacles.

"I see," is all he says and they go on with dinner.

When Peter finally retires to his room he finds Edmund already there, still wearing the clothes he was in that afternoon.

"Ed?" he asks softly, closing the door behind him and crossing to stand beside the bed. "Do you want to talk about it?" His fingers ache oddly, twitching as he stares at Edmund's hair, splayed across the pillow. He desperately wants to run his fingers through it, comb it back into order and stay beside the bed until Edmund will look at him again. Instead he clasps his hands together behind his back. "Alright then." He retreats to his own bed.

It's a long time before Edmund falls asleep. He stares at the wall, not sure whether he's trying to stay awake or not. He can feel dark dreams waiting as his eyes grow heavier, until he can't fight them anymore and is pulled under.

He dreams in fleeting sensations, confused memories and feelings from long ago, like he's gripped by a fever.

_He dreams of the rope rough against his skin, snow melting through his clothes as the tree he's tied to whispers nasty things in his ear._

_He dreams of the cruel, hot breath of the Witch's followers and the terrifying, icy effect of her stare._

_He dreams of pain as she touches him and that cruel knife slicing through skin without a car._

He's not sure how many of these overwhelming moments he remembers before something cool touches his cheek. Not cold like the Witch's winter, but something soothing. he turns instinctively towards it and thinks he can hear someone murmuring to him from far away as the feeling spreads, wrapping itself around him.

"It's alright, it's alright. I've got you." The voice filters down, infiltrating his dreams and slowly shifting them to more pleasant memories.

_Peter's fingers strong against his skin, just gently stroking, touching. His arms, his face, his chest. A warm look in his eyes like Edmund's the only thing and it's that look more than anything else that makes Edmund moan._

He drifts contentedly on memories of lazy afternoons as the sunset fades through gold and purple in the windows of their castle by the sea.

It seems all too soon when he feels himself detaching from the sensations and floating back up into consciousness. He blinks for a moment at the wan light streaming in through the windows, a pale mockery of his dreams.

Slowly he sits up.

"Peter?" His voice is rusty, loud in the stuffy air of the room. But it's already empty. He spends a long time staring at the neatly made bed beside his, trying not to cry.

If Edmund thinks he'll wake up with Peter beside him he's wrong. And if he thinks that Peter doesn't change his mind at least a dozen times a day he's even more wrong.

But time passes and they go back home to a war town city. They spend a few days in Finchley, feeling out of place and disconnected from their old friends. Then they head back to school and it's easier there, for both of them. Because Edmund's new and Peter's old and they don't see each other all that much.

Edmund still dreams at night though.

He's not sure whether he prefers the dreams of Peter to the ones of pain or not.

It's the first thing that Edmund thinks of when they find themselves in Narnia again. Like a weight's been lifted from his heart. It's been a year and he's spent the whole time afraid that they're not coming back.

Afraid that Peter will forget. That he'll forget.

He still has the dreams sometimes, but they're more abstract. More like fantasies. Fleeting sensations woven into a tapestry that wakes him up with tears at the back of his throat and leaves him staring at the wall for hours.

But here it's real again, like they're his memories once more.

He finds himself wondering about the analogy of exploring the ruins of their castle as he sifts through the broken fragments of his most precious moments.

He finds Peter staring out over the sea in what used to be their bedchamber. He steps up beside him, slipping slightly sweaty fingers in between his brother's. Content in this place to hold just one point of contact. Afraid that he might be overwhelmed if he allows himself more.

"Ed." Peter's voice is soft, reluctant. Edmund squeezes his hand tighter, unwilling to withdraw.

"But we're back. We're us again." He sounds strangely fragile as the wind drags the substance of his words away and out over the sea.

"I know." Peter's words are stronger as he turns to face his brother, disentangling their fingers. "But it's not the same." He leaves and Edmund stares after him for the longest time.

Peter almost turns around when he reaches the remains of the Great Hall. He looks over his shoulder and can just make out Edmund's slumped silhouette.

He almost goes back but then Lucy calls to him and the moment is gone. A year of self-control reasserts itself and he follows her voice down towards the hidden door, hoping that he's strong enough to endure.

Watching Edmund fight is a trial. There's an urge, an instinct, to jump in and assist. And even when Ed's winning there's something poetic about the way he moves. Something that makes Peter sway where he's standing, almost stretching, reaching out for the fragments of the king he can see in his brother.

Even afterwards there are lingering hints. Something in the Narnian air that makes it harder to remember why it's wrong. Something that makes him want to reach out and touch while they're sitting around the fire.

He imagines gently stroking Edmund's face like the firelight is. Brushing his fingers briefly where they're resting only a few inches away. Tracing the line of his eyelashes while he's sleeping.

Eventually he gets up and wanders away from the campsite, unwilling to sleep and afraid of what he'll do if he can't.

Then, as dawn rises and Lucy almost gets herself killed (again) he comes across something interesting.

That's when Peter meets Caspian. From the very first moment what he feels for Caspian, what they share, is nothing like what he feels (felt, felt, _felt_) for Ed.

Everything with Ed was perfect even now that it's broken. With Caspian nothing goes right and nothing feels perfect and all that exists is some kind of strange, bottomless anger that Peter didn't even know he possessed. That makes him afraid.

And he can see the betrayal in Edmund's eyes and the knowing look in Susan's. He wants to reach out and promise that this isn't a replacement, not even really a substitute, because nothing could ever live up to what they had. To what he wants. But he can't. So he keeps on seeing the pain and, perhaps worse, the resignation. When they run from the castle. When he saves Peter and Caspian from the shade of the White Witch.

He almost goes after Edmund then. Almost chases him down through the smoky caverns of the How. But instead he stays and kisses Caspian fiercely, his eyes tight shut as he tries to remember what Edmund tastes like. Holds the Prince's trembling body, trying to pretend it's Edmund just woken from a nightmare. But it's not the same.

Edmund can see it. See the differences. But he tries. He tries so hard to resign himself to whatever Peter has with Caspian. Whatever Peter wants. He almost manages it.

He almost manages to completely shut his feelings away but there's still something tying him to Peter. Something that makes his heart race when Peter strides out onto the battlefield and he sees, in his mind, the High King.

Something that brings tears to his eyes as he watches Peter limp towards him. Something that wrenches his heart when Peter talks about death and how long Ed's been there for him. When Peter tries to talk to him. Because it's still there but it's not the same and he can't deal with all the history that's hanging around and survive at the same time. So he stores that bittersweet thought away for after the battle.

But in the end it comes to nothing. Susan's the one who kisses Caspian goodbye and it's not Edmund's hand that Peter holds as they cross back through the gate with Edmund desperately wishing he didn't understand.

And the stale, underground air of the railway is the same but nothing else is. Because he thinks it might be time to grow up now. Because his dreams came back to him but it wasn't anything like he thought it would be.

So he decides that maybe it's time to drop this ridiculous obsession with something that Peter has obviously decided is never going to happen.

And while it doesn't go away he buries himself in the books in the back of the library, reading about philosophy and physics, looking for his own kind of magic there. He reads about the real world and when it all becomes too much for him he dips into the stash of fantasy books Lucy lends him whenever they see each other. Worlds where everything goes right and thousands don't have to die in battles and people don't have to go on alone.

And when none of that is enough he finds himself seeking anonymous strangers with a penchant for perversions. And if they're all taller and stronger than him with nice blond hair what does it matter? He can ignore these similarities while Peter looks on with a pained expression and finally leaves for America when he can't bear to watch his brother's circling despair any longer.

The trip back to Narnia is strange for Edmund. As the oldest he feels like he needs to be in charge. Protect Lucy and Eustace, protect the crew of the Dawn Treader.

But he's not, and he can accept that. He can accept following Caspian. And he can accept it when Caspian pushes him up against the wall of his cabin, kissing inexpertly, with a fire somewhere between anger and lust in his eyes.

"You look like your brother," he hisses, with something of his old accent. And Edmund doesn't agree but he can't see the point in arguing, so he lets Caspian push him down and explore his body with rough fingers. And he doesn't tell anyone when he dreams about Peter pushing against him in his hammock, begging him to come back and stop fighting.

And if he wakes up gasping and crawls into Caspian's hammock, whispering filthy things in the King's ear, then no one needs to know come the light of day. Not even him.

And then, quite suddenly, the war is over. Everyone walks around in a daze, talking about how they knew it would happen all along, only a matter of time really. And it _is_ only a matter of time before Edmund and Lucy get a letter warning them to pack their bags and promising a delightful surprise.

But Edmund's not surprised when Peter shows up at the gate, looking taller and more familiar than he has in years. Lucy squeals and hugs him and talks his ear off all the way up the garden path and into the kitchen where Aunt Alberta exclaims over what a young gentleman he's become.

Everyone crowds around, wanting news of Susan and of America and their parents and Edmund quietly retreats upstairs, wondering why on earth he could have wanted Peter to come home. Because while he might look like Edmund's High King all dressed up in the latest American fashions, he speaks with the faintest of accents and the smile is wrong, more self-deprecating and wary than befits a king. It's not really Peter's smile. Not the one Ed remembers. It's like a stranger wearing Peter's face.

He stays in his room all afternoon, pretending to check that he's packed everything. But there are only so many times he can look under the bed before the view becomes boring and so he finds himself standing at the window, pretending that he's looking at the street outside while he examines the notebook that Eustace gave him.

He'd presented them shyly, explaining that he'd detailed the events of their voyage and made copies so that Lucy and Edmund might each have one wherever they go, so that they shan't forget.

He finds himself musing on the similarities between Eustace and Susan when Peter comes into the room behind him. He knows it's Peter. Just knows it, even before he speaks. Because the sun is setting over the garden outside and the last rays of light stretching over the windowsill are far too familiar for it not to be.

"That ship in the picture in Lucy's room," he begins, and Edmund squeezes his eyes shut, unconsciously wrinkling the paper of the book as he clenches his fists. "It's very Narnian."

"Yes," he replies, trying not to sound curt, because even the way Peter says _Narnian_ is different and it hurts that even that's not sacred. "I suppose it is." The silence reigns for a minute and Edmund refuses to turn around, hoping this new Peter will just go back downstairs. It grows so quiet that he almost thinks he has. So he can be forgiven for jumping a little when Peter speaks again.

"I know." The words are soft, but Peter must have moved closer in the silent interval and Edmund represses a shiver, trying to remember that this isn't his Peter. Because suddenly, with that soft assurance in his voice, it sounds very much like him. He wants desperately to turn around. Instead he hardens his voice and opens his eyes again, looking out into a garden that's already dark, the sun disappearing behind the row of houses opposite.

"Who told you?" he asks, going for uncaring and coming out with slightly breathy. Peter chuckles and it's a little intimidating in the dark room but it sends tingles down Edmund's spine.

"Lucy," he replies, sounding lordly and irritatingly omniscient just like he used to. In a way that makes Edmund catch his breath, half in annoyance and half in fond familiarity. "And Eustace," he goes on, and now his footsteps are audible, drawing nearer. "And you of course." Edmund sighs and turns around. Peter is very close, his face mostly obscured by shadows that make his eyes deep and unreadable. "How was Caspian?" The question is nonchalant but the look is penetrating and Edmund feels like he's been slapped.

"Maybe I should've asked you the same question." It's childish and crude to imply but Edmund thinks it's worth it to see the way Peter's face twitches and shows just the tiniest hint of anger before it smooths out, and that's new too, because Peter has never been one to repress his anger. A thrill runs through Ed, unfamiliar but exciting all the same. But then it fades and he's left with the cold reality of what Peter's silence means.

"Forget I said anything," he tells him, brushing past, ignoring the buzz that sets up all across his skin as he turns back to the suitcase he's been ignoring all afternoon, opening it to put the book back inside. "You're the one who left." He's not talking about America and they both know it and there's hesitation followed by a slight sound behind him. Then Peter's arms slide under his, one wrapping around his waist and the other around his chest. Edmund freezes, his whole body practically vibrating as he feels Peter's breath in his hair, his brother's lips on the back of his neck.

"What if I don't want to be distant anymore?" For almost a full minute Edmund struggles to remember how to breathe, so long that Peter begins to pull away.

"Peter," he croaks and before he can think of anything more to say he's worked himself around in Peter's arms and his fingers are curled in Peter's hair in such a way that they have to be pulling while he fervently seeks Peter's mouth. And it's unfamiliar. Techniques forgotten and desperation overriding anything they might have learnt, new or old. Edmund's fairly sure that Peter's crushing his ribs and they're both going to have an abundance of bruises tomorrow and he doesn't care at all.

"Ed." Peter's voice is a whisper when they finally break apart, both gasping a little. Edmund's not sure whose tears are on his cheeks as Peter's voice runs on in a litany, all arrogant demeanour and shifting accent gone in the moment. "Ed, Ed. Did you think I didn't care? Did you think it was ever, ever easy? Ever at all?" And Edmund swallows, pressing his forehead against Peter's, fingers digging into the back of his neck.

"Never for a moment," he murmurs, and Peter lets out a shaky laugh, eyelids fluttering open as if he's afraid this is all a dream. There's a moment where they both just stare at each other, cataloguing what's changed from the last time they really looked.

Then Edmund swallows and shifts, pushing closer to Peter and resting his head on a broad shoulder, loosening his grip enough to let his hands wander.

"I missed you," he whispers. And they both know what it means. _I missed you when you left me. I missed you when I couldn't touch you, missed you until I couldn't even see you anymore. I hated going back to Narnia without you. I worried about you every day. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you._

"I know," is all Peter says, fingers drawing little circles on Edmund's back, feeling odd through the starchy linen where they haven't even really touched for what must be years. "I know." And they just stand there for what feels like an age, hands moving oh so gently over clothed skin while they listen to the sound of breath and calming heartbeats, like a promise of a memory.

Eventually Aunt Alberta calls them down for dinner and Peter pulls away, leaving Edmund feeling bereft and lonely. But Peter stops him as he turns and presses soft kisses to his lips.

"Shhh," he says, like he knows exactly what Edmund's feeling. "Later." And then he pauses briefly in front of the mirror, straightening himself up, before skipping down the stairs to dinner. Edmund follows him (because he's always been willing to follow him) feeling a lot more in his place than he has in a long time.

It's nothing concrete and he thinks only Lucy notices, while Eustace tries to hide his brussel sprouts and Aunt Alberta quizzes Peter on the finer points they didn't get to that afternoon, like travel arrangements and where he's planning on taking his younger siblings.

"No, I'm staying here tonight," he assures her. "But we'll catch the train tomorrow if you don't mind, Aunt Alberta. Susan's staying on in America with Father but Mother wanted me to come on ahead and get the house all cleaned up. Yes, back in Finchley."

It all washes warmly over Edmund who's not really paying attention to anything but the lingering warmth where Peter touched him, altogether missing Lucy's requests for the gravy until she just gets up and fetches it for herself. He receives some odd looks and so when Aunt Alberta suggests he might benefit from an early night he agrees.

No one thinks it's odd when Peter yawns hugely and makes his excuses before following Edmund quietly up the stairs. Edmund doesn't think it at all odd when Peter beckons him into the spare room, which is really more of a broom cupboard, and backs him up against the door, slipping it shut.

"Will they come looking?" he asks breathlessly in between kisses. Edmund shakes his head.

"No." He's all but panting as Peter drags his shirt free and begins unbuttoning it. "Lucy'll think of something."

"She's a wonder that girl, Peter agrees, turning his attention to Edmund's neck. Edmund hums in general agreement, breaking off into a gasp as Peter turns his head to scrape his teeth delicately across Edmund's earlobe.

"Do you have…?" he asks and Edmund takes a moment to fully comprehend what he means.

"What?" he asks absently. Then, "Yes. Oh, yes." He breaks away and looks at Peter, marvelling at the rapidly diminishing height difference. "You don't?" Peter shrugs, blushing and looking down at where their bodies are pressed together, chests touching each time they both inhale.

"I never…" he mumbles. "No one but Caspian…" Edmund stares at him for a moment, not sure whether he thinks Peter has some strange reaction to Narnian air or a very twisted thought process. Probably both. He smiles and stretches up to peck at Peter's lips.

"I'll be back in a moment." He leans in, taking another kiss, then one more. Then he smiles again and ducks out into the corridor. He listens for a moment to the conversation going on downstairs. Reassured that everyone is fully engaged, he tiptoes around the corner and sneaks into the room he's been sharing with Eustace.

He unclips his suitcase and throws it open, disturbing all the neatly folded contents as he searches and finally finds the little bottle he decants from Lucy's hand lotion (with her grudging consent) in the hidden compartment he quite cleverly installed himself.

Trying not to feel self-conscious about the dishevelled state of his clothes or the contents of his pocket (which always feels heavier than it should, like he's subconsciously ashamed of what it means), Edmund slips back into the hallway and across to Peter's room.

Peter isn't facing the door. His back is bared to Edmund as he bends slightly to pack his neatly folded shirt into the small suitcase that's all he brought with him to the Scrubb residence. Edmund can't help himself. He's halfway across the room before Peter turns around and realises he's moved.

"You're gorgeous," Edmund breathes, and Peter smiles just a little self-consciously, moving towards him and combing Edmund's hair back from his face, holding it there with long fingers as he kisses him in a familiar gesture.

"Thank you." His voice is warm and Edmund feels like he's drowning as Peter somehow turns them around and pulls Edmund with him towards the bed.

It's tiny and narrow and totally unfamiliar, but it doesn't matter because Peter settles onto it with a thump and tugs Edmund down into his lap even though he doesn't really fit properly. He takes the bottle from Edmund's fumbling fingers and sets it aside, returning his attentions to Edmund's shirt.

He presses his lips almost reverently against each new inch of skin along Edmund's shoulders as it's exposed, pausing to run his tongue along the line of Edmund's collarbone and bite down with even, white teeth in a way that makes Edmund chew his lip and squirm. Peter gasps as he does, shifting back on the bed so that he can spread his legs further apart, dropping Edmund down between them.

And so he does it again, pressing forward against Peter, feeling every bit of skin he can reach while his brother strips away the crumpled folds of his shirt.

For a little while that's enough, exploring the more hidden changes in each other. They slow until they're almost at a standstill, Edmund sitting between Peter's legs with his own hooked on each side of Peter's thighs, just kissing. Kissing until they're dizzy. Swaying back and forth in the heated air between them almost as if they're in a trance. Until Edmund's not sure if he's ever been anywhere else but here.

But he can feel the restrained tension pulling at him, feel it in Peter, too, as one shaky finger traces the line of his shoulder blade and spine. Almost unconsciously he drops one hand, running it along the solid curves of Peter's leg. Then he stops, fingers caught on the inseam and Peter whispers, shocking Edmund out of his trance.

"Go on."

Edmund swallows and looks up at Peter, who's staring at his hand like he's never seen it before, with pupils blown wide, his mouth hanging open and the slightest gleam of saliva smeared and catching the light oddly on his cheek. Breathing carefully Edmund trails his hand up those last few inches, catching it on Peter's fly and gently tugging the buttons through. The zip gets stuck, and he's frustratedbecause it's ruining what's supposed to be a perfect moment, but Peter just laughs and brushes his hand away, twisting it back and forth until it comes loose easily.

"It always gets a little stuck," he says softly, reassuring, and Edmund realises that this is their perfect moment because it's _real_. Perhaps more so than anything they had in Narnia. He smiles at Peter and eases the waistband down and over his hips as Peter returns the favour. There's less muscle and more pale skin and the same knowing look in Peter's eye.

"Come here." The words are soft and Edmund ducks his head and lets Peter pull him properly onto the bed in an awkward flurry of movement and skin. He can feel the scratchy woollen blanket against his knees, then his thighs, as he lowers himself gently down on top of Peter.

And there's a moment's hesitation, like dropping into an icy pool, where his breath catches and he almost pulls away, but Peter's hands are on his back. Not pulling, but maintaining the lightest of pressure just to remind him where he is. To anchor him with the familiar. Edmund's ashamed to realise he's crying, and Peter rolls to the side, pulling his brother down beside him with less amorous intent.

"Ed, are you alright?" He brackets Edmund's face with his hands and wipes the tears to the side. The movement is so familiar that Edmund has to laugh, although it comes out more like a strangled sob, bringing uncertainty to Peter's face.

"We don't have to do this. If it's too much, we can wait. I can wait." But Edmund's shaking his head desperately, seeing his chance at this particular kind of perfect moment drifting away.

"No, no!" He inhales deeply, trying to pretend he's not snivelling. "I want to. I really do." He looks up at Peter's doubtful face and smiles. "Promise." Peter studies him but eventually nods and only hesitates a moment longer before reaching around and retrieving the bottle from the bedside table.

"You're sure?" he asks again and Edmund nods. "Alright." And suddenly Peter's moving and he's just as strong as when he was High King, all long sinewy limbs as he flips them over and looms above Edmund, awkwardly threatening to crush him as he struggles onto his knees.

And from there it devolves into a series of remembered sensations and dreamy moments.

Edmund wondering if Peter's measuring the contents of the bottle with his eyes. Feeling a blush creeping across his face and down his chest. He doesn't like thinking about Peter contemplating the others. Wonders if he should tell him they didn't mean anything.

Peter's hand on the inside of his thigh, steady and reassuring as it strokes back and forth. Fighting not to tense up as Peter eases one finger into him, cold and uncomfortable and terribly familiar.

Watching Edmund's eyes slip shut as he bites his lip, slight crease forming between his eyebrows. Edmund looking at him and smiling a little secret smile (that he's missed so much) and whispering.

"I'm not all that fragile, Pete."

Watching Edmund's teeth sink deeper into his lip, suppressing a moan as he remembers the perfect way to move, slipping a second finger in while he's distracted.

Resisting the urge to draw this out, utterly fascinated by the effects his smallest movements have on his brother. Edmund propping himself up on his elbows, speaking in what would probably be a growl if his voice wasn't quite so wrecked.

"Hurry up."

Trying not to sound too emotional and utterly failing. He's all mussed up hair and flushed skin, chest heaving. But he's wearing the same old exasperated expression mixed in with lust.

Peter crawling up the long body spread out below him, pressing kisses against already bruised lips. Breathing-

"You're beautiful."

over and over again as Edmund squirms against him.

Their fingers knotted together so it's both their hands guiding Peter as he slides through impossibly stretched muscles. Tracing the burn as Edmund throws his head back, tendons standing out, desperately inviting, so that Peter has to lean down and lick at the hollows, earning him a surprised gasp followed by a moan.

There are Edmund's legs wrapped around Peter's trim waist, fingers digging bruises into his brother's shoulders. Peter's eyes half shut, barely able to focus as he watches Edmund's face, twisted by pleasure. As he reaches down, running his hand over taut abdominal muscles until his brother groans (half in pleasure, half in irritation) reaching down to force Peter's hand to where he wants it. And they pull twice (fingers tangled together again).

Edmund's whole body wrapping around Peter. Peter shuddering, panting into Ed's shoulder as stars dance across his vision.

Then there's a long, drawn out moment, and somehow, by the end of it, they've both collapsed (entirely boneless and hopelessly tangled) onto the bed.

For a while all they can do is breathe.

It lasts until finally they begin to grow chilly and Peter fishes Ed's shirt from the floor, cleaning them both off as best he can while Ed grumbles sleepily, tangling their legs back together as he throws the blanket over them.

Edmund curls closer, struggling until his head is resting on Peter's chest, free hand tugging idly at the sparse sprinkling of chest hair. Peter slaps his hand away half-heartedly, yawning as he pulls him close, crushing Ed against his body so there's no further teasing, and folding his own hand around the one not trapped underneath his brother.

He's almost asleep when Ed's tentative voice invades on his consciousness.

"Peter?" He's hesitant and Peter tries not to let that twist his heart too much with thoughts of _you did this, you left_ and _I know what's coming next_. Instead he hums in sleepy acknowledgement.

"Yes?" he asks. Edmund shifts uncomfortably, though there isn't far to go this wrapped up in blankets and pale limbs.

"What happens now?"

Peter thinks about it for a moment, then smiles a little.

"Now we sleep," Edmund, left with little recourse trapped against his brother as he is, headbutts him. Peter pretends he doesn't appreciate the gesture.

"I mean about what you said," Edmund goes on, before he can remonstrate with him. "You said we couldn't do this here." He trails off, leaving so many things hanging in the tiny amount of air between them. Things like _we're never going back to Narnia_ and _if anyone ever finds out_. But Peter ignores those things and shifts, pulling Edmund even closer and burying a hand in his hair so he can't headbutt him again.

"Maybe it doesn't matter as much as I thought," is all the consideration he's going to devote to it tonight. Because it's suddenly serious and he's not willing to toy with Edmund's heart any further. "Maybe this is just perfect for here and now." And he has his own unspoken message to convey, words that he'd never say, like _I couldn't live without you, no matter how hard I tried _and _if they want to take you away they'll have to kill me first_. And, sleepily, Edmund just nods against his chest, stretching up to press an unusually tender kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Love you, Peter." Peter hums and tucks Edmund's head down under his chin.

"I love you, too. Now go to sleep Edmund."

* * *

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